


there's only so much I can do (but I'll go to the ends of the earth for you)

by thelostcolony



Series: Nothing I've Ever Known [2]
Category: Marvel, Spider-Man - Fandom, daredevil - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Hurt Peter, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Stan Lee Cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, hypothetically, if I were to, say, try to bring down a huge drug cartel on my own without telling anyone where I was going or what I was doing, and consequently was lying in a ditch somewhere in Brooklyn, what would you do?"</p><p>Or: One of Those Mentioned Times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's only so much I can do (but I'll go to the ends of the earth for you)

When Matt gets the call at two A.M., he knows it can't be anything good.

" _Peter, Peter, Peter,_ " chirps his phone, and Matt doesn't waste a moment as he snatches it up from his nightstand, pressing it between his ear and shoulder as he stands and pulls on a shirt. The telltale rasp of troubled breathing filters in through the receiver.

"Hi-ya, Matt," Peter says in a falsely chipper voice, all bravado to cover his fear. Matt knows this only because of Peter's heartbeat; even for his age, Peter's voice reveals nothing. "I need a favor."

"You always need a favor." Matt doesn't bother grabbing his walking stick as he shrugs on his jacket and descends the stairs.

"Yeah, but this is an actual one this time," Peter laughs lightly, choking on his own air. It almost sounds like Peter's in a tunnel.

"So, hypothetically-" Oh no, he's started with hypothetically. He always starts with hypothetically when he thinks it'll ease Matt's disapproval. "-if I were to, say, try to bring down a huge drug cartel on my own without telling anyone where I was going or what I was doing, and consequently was lying in a ditch somewhere in Brooklyn, what would you do?"

"I'd kick your ass and leave you there. Good thing it's hypothetical." He throws his hand up to hail the oncoming cab. The cabbie must be suicidal or very, very confident that Daredevil will save him from anything coming his way when he stops. It's two A.M.- even for the city that never sleeps, it's a rare thing to catch one so quickly.

Peter almost whines- almost. But it's more of a whimper, and his heart skips a beat in lieu of speeding up. He's in pain.

"Where are you hurt?" Matt asks quietly, and easily ignores the look the cabbie must be giving him. Peter coughs wetly, hesitating for a few worrisome moments.

"Everywhere," he finally settles on, the truth, and Matt sits back, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Oh, Peter."

For a while Matt stays on the line, listens to Peter yammer on about nothing because he's nervous, zones out on him talking about something MJ said the other day or the last thing Jonah Jameson shouted when Peter was in his office today. They're menial, trivial things, but to Peter they're calming, and Matt slowly feels his own heartbeat steadying.

"And the pretzel guy is a supers sympathizer, so he gives me a pretzel whenever I happen to swing by- you really should stop by, it'd be good for you, Foggy is always complaining you don't eat enough-"

This goes on for a few more minutes before there's a lull, one that's lengthy enough for him to finally tell the cabbie to take him over the bridge (which he doesn't seem too happy about, but Matt can't do anything about that unless he wants to run all the way to Brooklyn).

(He doesn't.)

Peter quiets down around ten minutes in, runs out of nonsense to mutter through the phone, so Matt begins prompting him with questions that he seems a little too disoriented to properly answer (Matt suspects a head wound, adding it to the growing list of injuries he'll have to check out when he gets to Peter). The devil in him listens intently to Peter's heartbeat- it thuds against his ribs in an even rhythm, hitches sometimes with Peter's pain, a low murmur against Peter's raspy breaths.

"Matt?"

"I'm almost there."

Peter falls silent, labored breathing loud through the receiver. Matt's still ten minutes out.

"Hey kid," the cabbie with the old heart says. "You gotta friend on that line?"

Matt hesitates. "Yes."

The cabbie hums, smoke lungs trembling as he inhales. "Maybe good ol' Spidey's in the area then, huh?"

Any other night, Matt would laugh at the irony. Actually- no, he's laughing now. (He tries to keep it quiet so the cabbie doesn't think he's crazy.)

He must succeed, because they don't talk again and the only thing that fills the silence in Matt's ears is Peter's heartbeat. It's gentle, almost like he's fallen asleep, but it's the wrong pace- too fast.

"Peter?"

"Mmhm."

"Stay awake."

"I'm tired."

"Concentrate on not dying," Matt advises. "That should give you an adrenaline boost."

"Aw Matt," Peter says, quiet with exhaustion and yet still unable to skip a beat of snark. "Is this the part where you declare how you've loved me like a brother all these years-" a stilted cough, and Peter's lungs rattle when he continues. "H-how I'm almost as close to you as Foggy as a best friend; how you couldn't live without me?"

"I thought I told you to concentrate on not dying?"

"Did you? Couldn't hear you over my own eulogy."

From the front, the cabbie snorts. Matt hadn't known he was listening, and tries his best to recall the last fifteen minutes of babble and whether or not they mentioned their alter egos. He wonders if, perhaps, that was why the cabbie had mentioned Spider-Man. Either way, it doesn't really matter. No cabbie will think a blind man and a teenager are two of New York's most famous (or infamous) vigilantes- if he did, Matt would have to give him a lot of credit.

Matt tells the cabbie to pull over for a moment and says, "okay, Peter, I'm on my way." He doesn't ask where Peter is to keep up the illusion of appearances- he can follow Peter's pattering heartbeat just fine, and he doesn't have time for any alter-ego nonsense right now.

"Wait here for me, would you?" Matt says to the cabbie, and digs uselessly into his pockets. He hadn't grabbed his wallet on the way out. "I'll pay you extra when we get back to my apartment."

There's a sudden slew of choked off coughs; a sharp shift of air as the cabbie cringes. "I'll be here when you come back," the older man promises. "Don't you and your young friend worry about the fee."

Matt cants his head, halfway out of the cab. "You're a strange cabbie, sir."

"Not sir; Stan. I ain't old enough yet to be _sir_. There's still some young blood in these old veins."

Matt hums, a fast and fleeting smile flitting across his face, so quickly that it could have been imagined. Then he sweeps off into the night, following Peter's erratic, familiar heartbeat through the mostly deserted streets of Brooklyn.

It doesn't take him long- Peter's heartbeat is loud in his ears and Matt's movements are sure as he moves through the back alleys of Brooklyn. He expects more thugs and crooks than he runs across- Hell's Kitchen has spoiled the devil in him.

He finally stops, listening. Peter's heartbeat indicates he should be right here, and yet...

"Peter?" Matt calls, softly enough to avoid being carried on the alley walls but loud enough to be heard. "Peter, where are you?"

There's a metallic thump to his left, and Matt turns, canting his head. A dumpster sits there, lid shut and locked, its shape indiscernable to Matt. Another thump; vibrations in the air. It's smaller than most.

Of course.

"This child," Matt murmurs to himself and goes forward, fingering the lock. It's an old model combination one, the rotating kind, the kind you'd find on a school locker or a bike rack. Matt sighs, leans down and tugs-

But it doesn't break.

More heavy-duty than a school locker's or a bike rack's, then.

Matt backs up a few steps, braces himself, and steps into an easy roundhouse kick that should, by all means, be enough to break it-

But it remains in tact.

Because of course.

He sighs, crouches so he's more comfortable, and begins playing with it, listening for the click.

It doesn't take him long to have the lock off and the dumpster hood thrown up, and as the thick metal gives way he can sense Peter's position- he's curled up, squished into the dumpster for how small he already is, bent at odd angles.

"Hi-ya, Matt," Peter repeats weakly.

Matt doesn't grace Peter with an answer as he leans down and grabs him by the scruff of his suit, hauling him gently out of the dumpster and setting him on his feet, steadying the teenager when he sways.

"What happened?" Matt says, his voice impressively level. "I doubt those bullies of yours would bother taking you all the way to a Brooklyn dumpster just so you could fullfill your dreams of being Captain America."

"Ha-ha." Peter sounds exhausted.

"Do you have a change of clothes?"

Peter nods and reaches into his steel prison, pulling out his beat up backpack. "Give me a minute," he says, and it shakes. Matt politely pretends not to notice.

Peter pulls on some clothing to cover up the emblem on his chest, fingers trembling when he tries to do up the zipper on his jacket. Matt reaches towards it and does it for him, covering Peter's cold, shaking hands with his own sturdy, warm ones. Peter doesn't want to look at him, head turning away with a swish of air, so Matt doesn't make him.

He leads Peter back through the alleys towards the cab, a hand on Peter's shoulder to guide him, occasionally steadying him when he stumbles. Peter hasn't stopped shaking.

Shock.

They get to the cab in no time, and Matt can sense Stan's concerned gaze hovering over Peter. He must be a father, Matt thinks absently as Stan opens up the glove and pulls out a worn, but clearly well-loved blanket, going by the scent of home that's deeply ingrained in it. Matt drapes it over Peter's shoulders and sends a grateful look Stan's way, but there's a brush of air- the cabbie waving him off.

"Back to the apartment, then?" Stan suggests, and Matt nods. Peter huddles closer, sniffling when his nose begins to bleed. Stan hands Matt a napkin when the younger man can't find one.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and Stan shrugs, the fabric of his shirt painting the picture clearly for Matt.

"Don't mention it."

Peter lays his head on Matt's shoulder and Matt lets him, grasping Peter's chin and tilting his head back further when it dips. "Stay awake, Peter," he orders when he hears Peter's eyelashes fluttering against the skin of his cheeks. A puff of breath; strained, exhausted.

"'M tryin'."

They ride in silence for the rest of it, the only sound an intermittent cough from Peter when his lungs seize, but they make it back to Matt's apartment with little fuss. Matt gets out first and manhandles five feet of gangly teenager, saying to Stan quickly, "let me just get him settled and I'll come back out with the money."

Stan waves him off. "You don't need to. It's alright. Just get your friend set up."

Matt frowns, and tries to reposition Peter's arm over his shoulders. The pliant teen is almost _too_ boneless. "I'll be back out in a minute," he promises, and then struggles to drag Peter's listless form up the stairs.

He gives in about halfway up, sighing and gently swinging Peter up into his arms. The teenager is a hundred pounds soaking wet; this is nothing, even on stairs, and Matt tucks Peter's head close to his collarbone with his chin so it doesn't loll.

"M'tt," Peter mumbles into the skin of Matt's neck, "I can walk, 'm not a baby."

"Sure, Peter," Matt says as he toes open his front door, grateful now that he didn't lock it behind himself when he'd left. "Sure."

He maneuvers Peter with care, making sure his limbs are arranged in a semi-comfortable position when he lowers Peter onto his bed. He's sure the boy would protest sleeping where Matt usually would, but he suspects Peter's too tired to care- or at least too tired to argue.

"I'll be right back," he promises, and grabs his wallet from his nightstand.

When he gets outside, Stan's nowhere to be found.

**.::.**

They're pretty cut and dry, actually, Peter's injuries. He's sustained a couple broken ribs on one side- probably from being tossed into the dumpster- and a likely concussion, but Matt's not certain. He's bumped and bruised and exhausted, but it's not enough to warrant a call to Claire, for which Matt is grateful.

He tucks Peter in best he can (his apartment gets cold, it's not because- it's not), and settles down on the couch, the low hum of the billboard across the way and Peter's slow, even breathing enough to lull Matt to sleep.

**.::.**

Matt wakes up to a stiff neck, a vibrant voice singing terrible pop tunes, the clang of pops and pans, and the smell of something burning. Peter.

"Peter," Matt groans into the couch cushion where his face is pressed, "if you burn my apartment down, I'll never forgive you."

Matt can almost see the smirk Peter throws at him from his mind's eye, but Peter just continues singing to whatever horrible song is playing on the radio. "What is that?"

"Stop and Stare," Peter says, then belts at the top of his lungs: " _Think I'm moving but I go _nowheeeeeere!"__

"You know," Matt informs as he sits up and tries to bring the feeling back into his arms, "my neighbors hate you."

Peter's shoulders shift in a shrug. "Makes sense," he says, and doesn't comment on how Matt slept on the couch.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," Matt offers as he sits at the kitchen table, scratching the back of his head. They never say things like thank you, mostly because they already know. It's not really something that needs saying.

Instead, Peter announces, "hope you like your pancakes crispy!" as he plops a rock hard pancake onto the plate in front of Matt, and laughs his ass off at the look on Matt's face.

And, well.

It's moments like this that make it worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed, please leave me a comment on your thoughts and thanks for reading! This was for Angie, so,
> 
> Angie: We don't really need to say anything, but here's this, and thanks for being my best friend. You rock, buddy.
> 
> Please leave me a comment on your thoughts and thanks for reading!


End file.
